'The natural state of motherhood is unselfishness. Once you become a mother, you are no longer the centre of your own universe; you relinquish that position to your children.'
Russia knew he was different to the others. They all had blonde hair, skin that could tan in the summer, about the same height, wearing clothes that were mostly spring-suited. Or they were Asian, with dark hair and dark eyes, formal suits and polite greetings, carrying tradition on their shoulders, a wise air around them. Or they were southern, tan skin and brown eyes, short-sleeved, short-legged uniforms and the distinct smell of suncream.
He was freakishly tall, with white-coloured hair, the whitest skin you could ever have on a person that didn't tan, and wore large jackets and scarves, even when he went to other places not quite so cold as his home. He had tried so hard to fit in, but he didn't, he just didn't, because he wasn't like them. His own people discussed whether he was more Asian or European - even he himself couldn't decide; although from the way they acted, neither group wanted anything to do with him anyway.
And then there was family. America was clearly related to Canada, and some members of the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth, whether related by blood or not, considered each other family as well (though most were). All of them however, had some English trait, their bloodline traced back to the former empire. Russia had no connections such as these on the earth, except for a sister who wanted to be European, and another who seemed determined to unite with him, despite both their sufferings. He was quite sure one day, Ukraine would go completely - after all, even his scarf had been given as an exchange to make Ukraine stronger. Belarus would remain, but even she was seeking other prospects, other people and - how long? How long would it be before he was alone in the world, with not a person to call family?
He watched England argue with France over some scones he had given Australia and New Zealand. Both younger nations were looking at the toxic waste with a mix of horror and disgust, poking the possibly radioactive pieces of food (if it could be called that!) gingerly. Yes it was toxic waste, it should be thrown in the bin or dumped in a rose pot to spare England's feelings, but it was made with love and affection, given so freely with a kiss to the head or a brushing of fingers over hair. Given unconditionally. He watched the island storm out, France's obnoxious laugh following him.
Not sure why, he jumped to his feet and followed, mostly unnoticed. He managed to catch England in the conference kitchen, standing by the kettle, teabag at the ready. England turned around and - did Russia see a hint of softness in his gaze? No, he must be imagining it - acknowledged him. "Russia, sorry to disrupt the meeting like that, I know it was your presentation next," he said politely.
"Why?"
"Well, I wanted a cuppa - "
"No. Why do you do those things for them, if they don't appreciate it?" Russia asked. England stared at him for a long time before answering.
"Because they're my babies," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "As their mother - I mean, their parent, they have every right, every claim, to my care and affection. They, however, are not obligated to do the same... Besides, what kind of mother would I be if I didn't do all that for them?" He said the last part quietly, slipping up again in calling himself a mother.
"You should demand it," Russia countered. "They are your children after all."
"Oh Russia," England said, sounding half-amused, half like he was going to cry. "They are not mine. I am theirs, and I always will be."
The kettle whistled.
17/07/2018: Thanks to guest reviewer who pointed out the mistake in my summary of the story. It has been accordingly changed.